The Seed
by Antonia Caenis
Summary: Companion piece to The Quiet Man. May be read as a precursor or explanatory notes. Harry and Ilya. Kudos/BBC own what's theirs.


**June 2011. London.**

Of the first twenty four hours he remembered almost nothing except soul-destroying pain and flashing images of his team, hovering solicitously but absolutely lost as to how to help, then Malcolm, going drink for drink until there was no drink left. Then oblivion.

Of the second twenty four hours he remembered little more. Waking up on his sofa with a hangover from hell that did nothing to mask the pain. More solicitous hovering from Erin, more drinking with Malcolm. Not to oblivion this time, though. They had talked, instead, as he could talk to no-one else. And it was Malcolm who planted the seed. At the time it was a simple exchange of words.

"Do you know for whom Elena was working?"

A sigh and a shake of the head. "No."

"Perhaps you should find out."

It wasn't until after the funeral – the funeral he had devoted himself to over the following few days, trying to make as perfect a tribute to her as he possibly could – that the seed began to shoot. That week he had stayed away from Grid, starting to sort out himself while doing the same for Ruth's life. He had been staggered to find out that, earlier in the year while they had been tentatively rebuilding their relationship during his enforced leave, she had changed her will to leave him as her sole beneficiary, apart from a couple of small bequests. She really did have plans for a combined future, it seemed, but now, here he was, sorting out the few things she had left behind when she had gone on that final, lonely journey. The task had taken heart-breakingly little time so, in between, he had started watering the seed. Little by little, from the laptop on the desk of his home office, he had chipped his way into the depths of his own records (the copies he hadn't destroyed, those that usually spent their lives locked away in a safe deposit box in the depths of the Bank of England) as well as those of both Five and Six. Five's were easy enough – he had the authority, after all – but those of Six were somewhat harder. Malcolm had helped, positively enjoying the challenge and the opportunity to, in his own way, avenge the pointless deaths. Dimitri and Calum, arriving late one afternoon, had found the two older men, hollow-eyed and frustrated after they had come up against a wall in the system that they couldn't get around. They took the pair of them down to the pub and, several drinks later, had come up with a plan. The two geeks would deal with the wall while both Dimitri and Harry would start calling in favours from their contacts inside the sister organisations. Around the same time the Home Secretary then produced an interested party from the Cousins who was on a similar mission on behalf of their former Deputy Director. The discussion which followed was informative. They decided to work together with the same end-point in mind.

And so it went on. By the time he returned to the Grid, driven by the need to keep himself busy and to be somewhere where an echo of her might remain, the seed had a strong and healthy shoot: they had a very good idea of the identity of their target. All they needed was cast-iron proof. It was then that he got the phone call.

Sunday, early-morning. There was only a skeleton crew on, with none of his immediate subordinates around – sent home on Friday and told to stay home until Monday unless all hell broke loose – and he himself had only been back on the Grid, full-time, for four days, burying himself in work from dawn to dusk and beyond. Not that it helped much but it did succeed in taking his mind off his thoughts for the occasional five minutes here and there. Then, that morning, he had opened the third file in the back-logged pile on his desk and on the top was a Post-it note with her hand-writing on it. The first time he had seen it since his return. A wave of grief and nausea washed over him and he bolted to the roof terrace for some privacy and fresh air, wracked by sobs and glad no-one was there to see his melt-down. Several minutes later he was gulping in air, slowly regaining his composure, when his mobile rang. Taking it out he looked at the screen and, for a moment, couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Ilya?"

"Harry." The deep voice rumbled against some unidentifiable noises in the background. "We need to talk. Not on the phone."

The world felt like it was receding into a fog as he listened. This had to be a hallucination, otherwise it made absolutely no sense…

"Harry? Are you still there?"

"Yes." He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the voice, shutting the oddly-shifting skyline out. "I don't understand—"

"We need to meet. Today. I know what you are doing and have something for you. Some help."

Shaking his head, Harry opened his eyes again but leaned forward on the railings, free hand supporting his weight. The world was still spinning and he still felt like throwing up but both feelings were receding , albeit slowly.

"Where are you?"

"At the Gare du Nord, about to board the train. I will meet you at the other end in two and a half hours."

"Outside the main entrance."

The call was terminated, leaving Harry to wonder just what the hell was going on.

He got there early, of course. Not just out of habit but because he hadn't been able to settle back at his desk after the brief call. Ilya Gavrik, ringing out of the blue less than three weeks after he had destroyed his past and Harry had lost his future, and apparently heading back to England. "_I know what you are doing."_ The Russian's words echoed inside his skull as he wondered exactly how much the other actually knew, or if he was taking a stab in the dark. No, that was not Ilya's way, never had been: methodical to the point of obsessiveness, he rarely moved unless he was absolutely sure. So, the FSB had found out that someone was doing some very particular trawling in their databases and Gavrik had put two and two together to come out with a perfect four. Well, he would find out soon enough.

On arrival at the station he had done a search, in case it was a set-up, but with no result and had then ensconced himself in one of the coffee shops near the front of the concourse, where he could watch, to an extent, the goings-on both inside and outside while he downed a sub-standard cappuccino and flicked through the Sunday paper, ostensibly just another middle-aged man waiting for a train. Ten minutes before it was due he did another circuit of the building and still came up empty handed so headed outside and took up a position over the road, where he could see but not obviously be seen nor easily trapped. The train arrived on time, as evinced by the cloud of travellers it disgorged who started streaming out of the concourse within a couple of minutes. Harry stayed where he was until a familiar tall, slender figure appeared, coming to a halt to first sweep the immediate area and then further afield with his measured gaze. Stepping forward out of the shadows the younger man then remained where he was, knowing he would be seen, and indeed he was, within seconds. There was no signal of recognition or greeting; instead, Gavrik headed for the pedestrian crossing and waited, politely, for the lights to change before he joined the rest of the crowd in crossing the road. Once over, he approached sedately and extended his hand.

"Harry. Thank you for coming."

"Ilya."

They shook, checking each other out as they did so, noting the damage inflicted by the recent events. Dressed in jeans, a casual shirt and light jacket, the Russian had perceptibly aged and, thought Harry, was looking more reptilian than ever. Thinner, haggard and with eyes that were half buried in their sockets, Ilya Gavrik appeared to be almost totally shattered, which was almost exactly what he was thinking about Harry. The younger man had left his jacket and tie behind at the office and had rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, so was also looking suitably casual for a Sunday, but he had also noticeably lost weight and the lines on his face were more deeply etched than they had ever been; the Englishman had never looked his age, Ilya thought, but now he looked every day of it and more, with eyes that seemed to be perpetually swimming in tears. A broken man. Or almost: there was still some spark of life lurking in the depths, fuelled by the same cold fury that was driving Gavrik himself.

After sizing each other up for a few moments, each quietly acknowledging their eerie symmetry, Harry said,

"Let's go somewhere quieter," and led the way down one of the leafy side-streets, away from Euston Road and towards a small pub that he had noticed when he arrived. They walked rapidly, in silence; once inside the bar, Harry asked,

"What are you drinking?"

Ilya shrugged.

"Whatever you are having will do, Harry. I will find us a seat."

Whiskeys in hand, Harry joined him a couple of minutes later in a corner cubicle where they could both have their backs to the wall and watch the comings and goings. _Exactly where I would have chosen_, he thought, sitting heavily and handing the Russian his drink.

"So what is this about, Ilya?"

The Russian took a sip, savouring the quality of the single malt, then looked his counterpart straight in the eye.

"I feel I owe you an apology first." The other man's expression didn't change, he merely waited in silence, without the energy to even attempt to guess what his old adversary might be up to. "The last time we shared a drink together, at your house, I said some things that were both unfair and unkind, as well as being completely wrong, as we now both know. For that, I am sorry. I cannot imagine how much of a fool I must have appeared to you."

Harry shrugged.

"All I thought, then and now, was how well she had led you, too, astray. Nothing more. Neither of us knew the truth at that point. I've never taken you for a fool, Ilya, or no more of a one than I am myself."

Gavrik nodded slowly in acknowledgment.

"And now I am in the same position as you. The women we loved gone, sons who want nothing to do with us, cold, empty houses and nothing left but our jobs. You, at least, still have your daughter." Harry looked at him sharply at that comment but he waved a hand dismissively. "Just a comment, Harry, nothing else, and I sincerely hope your son will come back to you one day. I doubt if mine will."

Silence fell between them before the younger man finally murmured, staring into his drink,

"How is Sasha?"

The other looked at him, studying his face closely.

"I see you still care."

Harry met his gaze, unblinking, and replied with the blunt truth.

"After thirty years it's going to be difficult to stop caring, Ilya."

"Indeed." He looked down at the table top. "Physically, he is recovering but psychologically he is not. He has withdrawn completely into himself, does not talk, does not make eye contact… He does not even acknowledge my presence. I don't know what his future is but at least I have the money to ensure it is comfortable. What I do know is that he has taken what he did to Ruth to heart as deeply as he has done with what I did to his mother. He will never forgive himself for the former – she was _not_ the target, Harry, you were, you know that – and will never forgive me for the latter. "

It was much as Harry had expected, on the one or two occasions he had considered it. After what the boy had witnessed and done that day it was no surprise that he had completely broken down. Harry couldn't even blame him for what had happened to Ruth, because he knew the impetus had come from somewhere completely different and that it had all been a ghastly accident. _He_, rightly or wrongly, was indeed the one who was meant to be dead… Gavrik was speaking again, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"What do you know of Anatoly Arkanov?"

The question puzzled Harry for a moment until he remembered the meeting with Elena at the theatre. Remaining impassive but with a sinking heart he answered,

"Very little. He was part of your security detail, was he not?"

Ilya said nothing for a moment, just continued to look at the other man out of those curiously empty eyes.

"Yes. He disappeared from the hotel and apparently flew out of the country but he never arrived at his destination and has not been seen or heard from since. He was Sasha's best friend but I fear my son had something to do with his disappearance. If you know anything, please tell me." It was the note of near-pleading in the deep voice that did it for Harry. In the depths of his own grief he could not deny the truth to another man in the depths of his, even if that man had been his enemy for decades. Speaking quietly he finally replied,

"I believe Anatoly was suspicious of Elena and followed her to her meeting with me, at the ballet rehearsal. He must have seen us talking; Sasha said Anatoly was threatening his mother, they had an argument, Anatoly ended up dead. By accident or design, I don't know, but he had been strangled." Even as he said it he wondered if there would be any reaction but he was surprised at how the other man went ashen and the intense pain on his face, momentary though it was. "Sasha – _obliged _– me to help him dispose of the body. Arkanov will never be found. Sasha was to deal with the rest. That is all I know."

Gavrik buried his face in his hands in horror and despair. Like father, like son indeed, in the worst possible way. Harry swallowed the last of his whiskey and said, standing up,

"I'll get us another," leaving the man to recover his composure in private. He never thought he would feel sorry for Ilya Gavrik but right now that's exactly what he did feel. When he returned with two more rounds the Russian was back to his usual impassive self, accepting the new drink with quiet thanks before saying,

"That is probably enough of that particular brand of unpleasantness. We are here to talk of another."

"Finally getting to the point, Ilya?"

"Yes, Harry." He took a sip from the new glass and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, retrieving a small packet and a memory stick which he laid on the table. "I became aware, last week, that outside agencies were hacking into the FSB databases, looking for very particular information. The same information that I was looking for but I had a head start. I realised very quickly that you were the only one who could be behind it and I understood why: it seems we both want the person who was really driving recent events." They stared at each other until, eventually, Harry gave the briefest inclination of his head. "I'm sure you realise that person is Mikhail Levrov."

"Yes. We have a lot of circumstantial evidence but need a direct link."

"What you want is in here—" he tapped the memory stick "—along with everything else we have uncovered from our own records and all the recovered files from Mr Coaver's laptop, which was delivered to me in pieces when we returned to Russia. Sasha lost his temper with what he saw on there but I believe we have recovered all of it and it is very informative." He pushed the stick and the small package over the table. "The package contains the hard drive from the laptop, in case you want to check to make sure we haven't altered anything. Have you organised an operative yet?"

Harry stared at the stick and the package for a moment, not sure what to make of the offer, before looking up again to meet those guarded hazel eyes, replying carefully,

"I have held discussions. If this is what you say it is then I can go ahead and confirm the arrangements."

"Let me know when you have. I will assist in every way I can to ensure the operation goes smoothly."

A slight frown creased the younger man's brow.

"I'm sorry, Ilya. Forgive me for asking this but why? Why not organise the job yourself? It would be far easier to do so from inside Russia. And why should I trust you?"

The Russian suddenly looked immensely weary.

"I cannot do it myself for the same reason you cannot: we are known entities and will be expected. In my position I am a public figure now and cannot risk being directly associated with such an operation whereas you still work in the shadows and, in the new Russia, even the FSB has to be a little careful about what they are seen to be involved in." Harry said nothing, merely raising a disbelieving eyebrow. "It is true, Harry. Plus, Mr Levrov has some very powerful friends."

"I believe you have one in particular who is more powerful than any of his. How is Mr Putin?" Gavrik didn't even blink at the reference to his Prime Minister and former protégée. Their long friendship was, after all, well known.

"He is very well and, although he neither has nor wants any details, has tacitly sanctioned our combined operation should we choose to go ahead with it. He has no fondness for Mikhail Levrov, his associates or their objectives, either. That is why you can trust me, Harry. We all have the same outcome in mind and I know you well enough to know you will go ahead with this one way or the other anyway. As will I, if you don't. Doing it this way gives us all what we want, swiftly and efficiently, and will be an interesting exercise in mutual co-operation between our two countries, if you wish to look at it that way."

There was silence for a long moment until the Englishman stated,

"Only if we deal with you directly all the way through, Ilya. No-one else."

Gavrik's face was deadly serious as he replied,

"That is a given and guaranteed, Harry. You and I will work it out and your operative will deal with me directly once he or she is in Moscow: I will be the only contact between them and whatever FSB assets I think we need to complete the job."

The silence stretched while Harry considered the offer. It was a leap of faith to accept the assistance of his old enemy but he could see it made sense and would make the job significantly easier. In his present frame of mind he wasn't sure he cared about anything else: he had come to the realisation after that day on the coast that Ilya had been as much of a victim of Elena as everyone else, if not more so, and he also understood the man well enough to recognise that, once over the shock of the events, his bloodless, calculating brain would come to the same conclusion that Harry had: Elena's handler had to pay for his actions. That they could combine their energies, as he already had with the CIA, preventing un-necessary duplication and vastly streamlining the operation, actually made perfect sense. And they were all supposed to be on the same side these days.

Reaching out to take the memory stick and package, all he said was,

"Done," before lifting his glass to the other. They gave a silent toast, downed the remains of their drinks and sat looking at each other for a few more moments, both considering how unlikely and impossible this scenario would have been not so many years beforehand. Ilya glanced at his watch and said,

"We have enough time for a more leisurely stroll back to the station, if you would like to start discussions before I get the next train back to Paris. No-one knows I am here so the earlier I get back, the better and I am keen to get on with our programme, as I know you will be."

Harry nodded and they stood up and left the bar. The walk back was almost comradely as they discussed their thoughts on the matter at hand: the younger man already had the outline of a plan; the elder agreed it would work and by the time they arrived back at the concourse most of the details had been filled in. The assistance of the FSB would now ensure the project's success. Gavrik had also outlined his larger plan and Harry shrugged, not caring one way or the other personally but understanding his counterpart's motives perfectly. He would merely choose to not mention that end of it to anyone else. It would serve no purpose to do so.

Once at the concourse the two men shook hands and Ilya surprised Harry by saying,

"You know, Harry, I have always respected you, going right back to the early days in Berlin, but lately, despite everything, I am discovering that I actually like you. It is very odd, but strangely gratifying."

Odd and strange it was but the Englishman also realised it was true. He and Gavrik had been entangled for decades; now it was all out in the open and largely consigned to history they could start to see past the layers of smoke-screens and recognise the potential for something different to evolve. They had much in common, after all.

"You know, Ilya, I've been thinking much the same thing. Thank you for today. I will be in touch tomorrow." His next words arrived unbidden and surprised both of them. "Perhaps we should consider staying in touch after it's all over. At a personal level."

For the first time that day, and for the prior three weeks, the Russian actually gave something approaching a smile, touched by the offer.

"We will."

Harry watched until Ilya had disappeared onto the train, briefly wondering what had made him come out with the idea but dismissed the thought – it was unlikely anything would come of it – and walked back downstairs and out onto the street. Extracting his mobile as he walked back to his car he rang a particular number. When the other man answered he said,

"Tom. The operation is on. When and where can we meet?"

The seed flowered.


End file.
